


Weight of Responsibility

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Sherlock, Fluff and Angst, Guilty John, M/M, PTSD John, Pillow Talk, Survivor Guilt, Tattooed John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Finally having made it to bed, Sherlock sees John's tattoo, and it's not what he expects.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Potential Triggers: Death during war (not major characters), survivor guilt, PTSD. 
> 
> Turns out the smut level will be minimal in this series. I tried to write a scene but it felt too gratuitous. I want these to be an exploration of the little moments that built and defined John and Sherlock's relationship, and 'first time sex' seemed too momentous to explore here. So it's the intimacy of post-event pillow talk instead.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the kudos and comment-love. I've seen this series being recommended on tumblr as well which is completely amazing - I know there are so many incredible authors about there and I am so flattered to think anyone likes my work enough to tell other people, 'hey you should read this!'. So if that's you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. <3

“Deltoid…Trapezius…Latissimus dorsi…”, John murmured, his voice drowsy and contented. One hand trailed over Sherlock’s back, mapping the muscle groups as they traced the vast, pale contours. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but the little sighs and wordless murmurs he was making told John that he was awake and very much enjoying John’s lazy attentions.

“I remember almost all these scars, you know,” John said quietly. His fingers could trace the shapes, reading them like Braille, faces and scenes playing in his mind. This long thin one, the blade of a scalpel (drug selling surgeon); a wider, more gnarled one, glass from tripping in an alleyway (chasing a thief); a scattering of small round ones, buckshot (disgruntled farmer trying to pass off mongrel dogs as purebreds). There were a dozen others, too, the stories bleeding together as moments so often did. Not this one, thought John, this moment of perfection would be seared in his memory like, well, like scar tissue, sharp and clear, never to blur into haziness. His fingers found the wide, shallow scar on Sherlock’s upper arm. This day he remembered with great clarity.

“Remember this one?” he asked, tracing it carefully with one finger.

Sherlock smiled lazily in acknowledgement. “Winged by the blackmailer.” His voice was husky and deep from under the curls.

“I should have reacted faster,” John muttered to himself, and Sherlock’s eyes opened as he frowned at John.

“You saved my life, John,” Sherlock said, surprise in his voice.

John shrugged, acknowledgement without acceptance. “A shot in the shoulder in the middle of London wouldn’t have killed you.”

A wry chuckle from Sherlock broke the silence. “You’re an idiot, Doctor Watson. If you hadn’t pushed me exactly when you did, I wouldn’t have the scar to remember you by. Don’t you remember the rest of the conversation?”

“You said we were a part of each other’s story,” John remembered.

“I did.” Sherlock’s voice held the satisfaction of knowing something that was irrefutable. “And now, even more so.”

John chuckled. “Indeed.” The cosy intimacy cloaked them as they recalled the same memories, now cast in a new light against their relationship.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked without moving his head.

John shook his head. “I’m not getting up any time soon,” he said, knowing that Sherlock was requesting, not offering.

Sherlock made a vaguely disgruntled noise which descended into a satisfied sigh when John’s hand wandered up to start playing with his hair. Sherlock knew John knew that he loved having his hair played with, and that he employed such knowledge when he wanted to distract Sherlock, but he really didn’t care. As long as John kept playing with his hair, it was fine by him.

“I can count all of your ribs, you know,” John murmured, his face so close to Sherlock’s that his breath made the curls over his eye dance.

Sherlock barely acknowledged the comment with a slight grunt.

“Did you forget to eat as a child, too?” John wondered aloud. Sherlock made a half-hearted shrug, and John didn’t press the issue. They lay in blissful silence for a while, the hand in Sherlock’s hair stilling but remaining. The quiet was delightful, John thought languidly to himself, considering how loud the flat could be. Perhaps this was a way he could get Sherlock to calm down and stop shouting. He stored that idea away for future use.

Rolling onto his back, John raised one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered how many nights Sherlock might have lay in this precise spot, looking up through the ceiling to John’s bed, almost exactly above him. John turned just his head to Sherlock, his face obscured by the flop of dark curls across his cheeks.

“You told me about your scars that day,” Sherlock said.

John frowned to remember that specific part of the conversation. “Oh, yeah, I did,” he replied. He wondered whether Sherlock…

“Your tattoo isn’t what I expected.” Sherlock’s deep voice, further deepened by its earlier moaning, spoke before John could open his mouth.

Confused, John looked at his shoulder. “What? Oh, yeah. Most people assume it’s going to be an RAMC badge or something.” He reached over and touched the images, remembering who they were for.

“5th Northumberland Fusiliers,” John said quietly. “The crest is St George killing the dragon. This felt more real than the RAMC badge.” He fell silent for a contemplative moment, then continued. “I felt more connected to these men than the RAMC in a lot of ways. The docs were all docs, but I relied on my unit for my life. As they did me.” His fingers were still running over the details spread across his upper arm. “Not all of them had their faith rewarded.” He felt the emotion welling in his chest, and he swallowed hard, pressing it down, and glancing over at Sherlock.

He had pushed the curls back, and he was watching John’s fingers move across his skin.

John could see he was listening, so he continued, touching each tag as he spoke. “Thomas Weaver, killed in an ambush. Simon Le Plegg, sniper. James Harley and Bob McGrath, IED. Xavier Nicholls, Kevin Victor-Nash, Henry Eloranta, another IED.” Each name was represented by a set of dog tags carrying the same information as the real ones. “There were heaps more that were injured, some maimed permanently, others sent home and I never knew what happened…but these are the brothers who died in my arms out there in the desert.”

John moved his hand with some reluctance, knowing Sherlock would want to examine the whole image as closely as possible. The stylised St. George and dragon crest formed the hilt of a broadsword, over which each set of dog tags hung, the blade fading out just as it passed the edge of John’s bicep. John had had it done the first week he returned to London, the details of each man burned into his brain, never to be forgotten. He knew that he wanted something more visible, to remind him every day that he was the lucky one, no matter how alone and grey his life might feel. The RAMC logo seemed too removed, given the guilt he carried, however irrationally, for the deaths of these men, his brothers for all intents.

“Does it help?” Sherlock asked, and John looked at him in confusion.

“Does what help?” John asked.

“Bearing the details of your late colleagues. Does it help with the guilt?” Sherlock expanded.

John froze for a long moment. He knew the answer of course, but the question still drove to the very heart of him. “No.” he whispered hoarsely. “I know it’s irrational, that nothing could have saved them. They were killed instantly, which was merciful, really, given the possibilities. But I was their doctor, that was why I was there. They did the soldiering, my job was to keep them safe.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice held a gentle rebuke. “Your job was to keep them as healthy as possible, given the situation and resources at hand. You were in the middle of a war zone.” He smiled a little sadly, understanding in his eyes. “Nothing could have kept them safe.”

John nodded automatically. He had been told the same thing over and over, by friends, family, therapists, but it had never held the weight of this moment. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he passed one hand over his eyes, then admitted, “Nobody has ever asked that. Never noticed that might be why…” he broke off, unsure his voice would carry him through the end of his sentence.

Sherlock smiled gently at him. “I’m very observant, John.”

John smiled back at him, still a little watery. “Yes you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Crest of Northumberland Fusiliers:  
> https://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://www.maltaramc.com/imgregts/nthfus.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.maltaramc.com/regmltgar/1northfus.html&h=1640&w=1628&tbnid=5dDYV6QvaBLwuM:&vet=1&tbnh=186&tbnw=184&docid=RQ16uNNAu8NWNM&itg=1&usg=__x3TLe4UMJbBHbmJwvsiR6zfGGMw=&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwiT3tbA4f3RAhWKfLwKHScTAJMQ_B0IczAK&ei=X5-ZWNOyGYr58QWnpoCYCQ#h=1640&imgrc=5dDYV6QvaBLwuM:&tbnh=186&tbnw=184&vet=1&w=1628
> 
> Inspiration for John's tattoo:  
> https://au.pinterest.com/pin/515028907363439615/


End file.
